Honoring the Legacy: Remembering My Saint

Today, the 15th, marks the anniversary of laying my grandfather to rest. I had originally planned to write this on the 8th, the date of his passing, but grief often charts its path. On that day, I woke up energized, ready to honor his memory through words. Yet, after a morning shower, I found myself overwhelmed, tears flowing freely. In hindsight, I’m grateful I was alone, shielded from probing questions. Grief has a peculiar way of reminding us of its permanence—eight years on, and the memory of that fateful phone call remains vivid.

I can still hear my mum’s broken voice calling to inform me she was heading to Nyeri and advising me to leave the keys with the neighbor. That day, I remember the matatu ride to school; I paid for two seats because I couldn’t bear anyone’s curious stares. I remember how many phone calls I received that day from my aunts, uncles, and friends because they knew how close we were

These past few days, I’ve avoided my morning walks. Each glance at the sky seems to reveal his face as if urging me to pen these words. Perhaps the rain nudged me toward this moment, or maybe I simply needed an excuse. Whatever the reason, this isn’t an obituary; it’s an opportunity to celebrate my grandfather from my perspective. His story intertwines with countless others, but this is my version of who he was.

My mother had me young, and as I approach a certain milestone (one I’d rather not disclose—let’s just say eii kwa mbavu zangu nazeeka), I often wish I could turn back time. Yet, being born early allowed me the unique privilege of creating vivid memories with my grandfather. He was the kindest man I’ve ever known, spoiling my cousin and me as his only grandchildren for a long while. When I asked my grandmother where they met, her answer—Nairobi—made perfect sense. They were, and still are, undeniably cool.

I saw that love they shared with one another, the kindness they had, they both opened their house to do many people, they were alwaystogether and my grandmother is always proud to say Francis Karobia is my husband till date , what I know about love I have learnt from watching them together with Mr and Mrs Muchai where I come from.

Sleeping between my grandparents was a cherished experience. Despite my chaotic sleeping habits, they never complained. I’d sprawl across them, roll into their faces, and still, they welcomed me. To this day, sharing a bed with my grandmother feels like a treasured ritual. My grandfather, on the other hand, was inseparable from his favorite chair. It was his throne, and we all respected that unspoken rule.

This was probably taken after us enjoying icecream

When my grandmother was away, my grandfather turned into a mischievous guardian. He introduced my cousin and I to the magic of ice cream—a rare treat. The ice cream man seemed to intuitively know when my grandmother wasn’t home, and we’d eagerly await his bell. But indulgence came with a price: we had to sing my grandfather’s special song, “Guka Chololo, Guka Chololo...” before he’d let us pick our treats. It’s a memory that still makes us laugh.

Many of my childhood holidays were spent in Nyeri, basking in the warmth of my grandparents’ home. My grandmother kept nearly 100 chickens, a trait my mother seems to have inherited. One holiday, I overindulged in farm eggs and broke out in a rash. My grandfather, ever resourceful, applied Rob ointment all over me as we waited for my grandmother to return. The menthol-induced “cool and breezy” sensation still makes me chuckle today.

Education was a pillar of his life, and he instilled that value in me. From kindergarten to university, he was unwavering in his support.He was there with me for my first day in any school I attended. He encouraged me to dream big, always reminding me of my potential and to always believe in myself. I vividly recall my form four prayer day. Despite his illness, he left the hospital to be there, making it one of the most memorable moments of my high school journey. His presence, along with my extended family’s, made that day extraordinary.

This was taken on the day of my prayer day.

At night, he’d sneak snacks to us—Delmonte juice, queen cakes, crisps—contraband for both his health and my grandmother’s strict sugar policies. We’d quietly enjoy our treats, clean up, and pretend nothing happened the next morning. It’s these small, rebellious moments that remain etched in my memory.

My grandfather’s patience, thoughtfulness, and kindness defined him. Whether buying me maziwa mala or indulging my tantrums, he always made me feel special. He even sat through cartoons with me, though he preferred the steady hum of Parliament proceedings.

Life has never been the same since his passing. His absence left a void, but it also deepened our love for one another. His legacy lives on in our family’s bonds, in our memories, and in the stories we continue to share.

To my grandfather: I hope we’re making you proud. I like to think you watch over us, smiling as you see how far we’ve come. I hope that where you are you are reunited with your mother, brothers and sisters, give them a big hug for us and tell them we miss them too and that their legacy lives on in their children and their grandchildren and their great grandchildren. The world has changed, but our love for you remains constant.

As Macklemore aptly sang:“I heard you die twice: once when they bury you in the grave,And the second time is the last time somebody mentions your name.” We’ll never stop mentioning your name. Through our stories, you live on in our hearts, always.

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